


The Stiff Heart Questions

by starperson



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gabriel is a good husband, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Original Character Death(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Religious Abuse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starperson/pseuds/starperson
Summary: "John Morrison dies on an August evening in 2066. It’s midnight in Zurich when his son gets the call."





	The Stiff Heart Questions

**Author's Note:**

> There are no graphic descriptions in this fanfic, but please heed the warnings regardless.
> 
> Written in collaboration with @smallerluke, check out his fanfiction Fortunate Son if you love slow burn Reaper76. 
> 
> \--
> 
> After great pain, a formal feeling comes –  
> The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –  
> The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’  
> And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?  
> \- Emily Dickinson, 372

John Morrison dies on an August evening in 2066. It’s midnight in Zurich when his son gets the call.

It’s a rare night when Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison can occupy their bedroom together, that liminal space where their marriage becomes reality, not just concept, not just rings that press against skin that press against armor. The world rarely allows for their sleep to align, but somehow, in some God-given miracle, they are both in Switzerland, both free of obligations for one breathable moment, both able to fall into each other’s arms and sleep. As one, for once.

As with all good things, it doesn’t last.

Gabriel’s rest is interrupted by the faint acknowledgement of a phone ringing. It’s not his own. He doesn’t move, and neither does the heated body he’s curled against, until the ringing becomes incessant. The heat disappears, sticky limbs removed from their entanglement as Jack sits up with a groan of effort. They aren’t young men anymore, fatigue in the very core of their bones, a weariness one only gets from the experience of war. For all SEP did, they aren’t immortal, though they both want to think otherwise.

Gabriel keeps his eyes firmly closed, trying his best to fall back into the rare dreamless sleep he’d managed to catch the edges of. Jack’s low voice keeps him up. It jumps from tired to serious, asking for information. Work, Gabriel assumes. It is only when Jack has said nothing for a notable amount of time that Gabriel finally opens his heavy eyes. He’s greeted with view of a back thick with muscle, scars angrily etched into the flesh. He sees old bullet wounds. He sees a spot of knotted tissue from an explosion during the Crisis. He sees an injury from an Omnic that almost took Jack out, had it been an inch to the left. He sees countless close calls that lent him sleepless nights. And yet… Jack is still here.

Slowly, fondly, Gabriel traces a finger over the skin, following the lines between old wounds and moles and a birthmark, tracing a map’s directions. He’s slightly aware of the growing silence from his husband, an absence of language that speaks volumes more than any anger or upset in his tone.

Gabriel furrows his brow when Jack finally speaks. His voice is professional, cold. “I see,” he says, “Thank you for telling me. I’ll sort out things from here. I can catch a flight within the hour.” This disappoints Gabriel; he sighs and his expression drops. There’s no rest for the weary. Even as the call ends, Jack keeps the phone pressed to his ear, cast in stone where he sits. Touched by Midas. Gabriel stills his gentle movements.

“Hey.” He kisses Jack’s warm skin between his shoulders, something that always makes his husband smile, at the very least. It earns no reaction in response, and the discomfort in Gabriel’s belly only deepens. “Don’t go back to work just yet. Even Strike Commanders are allowed a night off.” The stiffness in Jack’s body is troubling, and when he realises he’s being fenced off, Gabriel has to sit up, swinging his legs around to get a better look at his husband.

Eyes squeezed shut. Fingers pinching the bridge of a nose, broken too many times to count, a nose already crooked when they first met. He knows almost every mark on Jack’s body, more than he knows his own, but even Gabriel cannot explain some of the scars that litter his skin, and it is as mysterious as it is troubling. He enjoys imagining Jack getting into fights in childhood, a troublemaker, a ruffian, because any alternative explanation is too painful to conceive of.

And once he had touched a small white scar on the back of Jack’s neck, and the flinch it earned made Gabriel’s heart stop dead.

“Jack.” Those blue eyes open, dead ahead. Something in them takes Gabriel back to when they first met.

“My father’s dead.” There’s an emotion, thick and ugly in his voice, deep rooted. Gabriel thinks it’s grief.

“Shit…”

“I need to go to Indiana, take care of things…” Jack gets up, not looking at Gabriel, and begins to busy himself with dressing, covering those scars with cloth. Gabriel’s eyes follow Jack, and it dawns on him that this is the first time that he’s ever directly talked about home. Before, back in SEP, back when they were barely adults and they puffed out their chests trying to play the part of the soldiers they would become, they talked of ambition, and future conquests, and heroism. They talked of home. Gabriel could speak for hours about his sisters and parents and his home and the friends he left behind, but Jack’s answers were always brief. Gabriel knows he was born in Indiana and that he lived on a farm close to a college town. Gabriel knows his mother passed when he was young. Gabriel knows he was named after his father.

Sometimes, Gabriel wonders why Jack doesn’t call home. He had assumed the worst, assumed Omnic attacks, bombings, the same story you would hear a million and one times during and following the Crisis. It was strange to think this whole time, his husband had a family out there that he didn’t mention.

“I’m coming with you.” It’s a statement, not a request. Gabriel gets up and pulls on some boxers, purposely ignoring the look he knows that Jack is giving him. They’re both going to be stubborn about this.

“I know you want to help, but this isn’t the time. This isn’t your place.” He’s using his annoying professional voice on Gabriel, trying to detach emotion from the words he’s speaking. Gabriel flashes him an incredulous look and folds his arms.

“You aren’t going to bury your father without me, come on. I’m your husband.”

“There’s things to be done, Gabriel _.”_ A rough bite to his voice, accusatory, almost mocking, as if he’s stupid, as if he can’t understand. And it’s cold. _Gabriel_. He only calls him his full name when they fight, or pulling rank. Gabriel can’t help the heat to his face, and the sudden anger in his voice, and he bites right back.

“Don’t do that, Jack. I can keep up.”

“You’re pushing.” He sees the frustration in Jack’s eyes, the pre-cursor to another damn argument. Gabriel doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this attitude, and already he’s lining up things to hurl at Jack once the fight flares up. _You’re always too busy for me. You never let me in. Why do you close yourself off? Why do I embarrass you?_

_What are we doing to each other?_

Gabriel closes his eyes and inhales, remembering his breathing exercises. Jack’s anger isn’t actually directed at him, he reminds himself. This is Jack’s issue. It’s his own inability to express what’s wrong. It’s him lashing out. Gabriel has to breathe in and remind himself that he isn’t the problem here. He swallows down his immediate desire to become defensive. He exhales, and when he opens his eyes, his expression has softened. In a few slow steps, he reaches Jack, a hand going to that cheek to run a thumb along the shadow of his rough jaw. Just like a spooked animal touched with care for the first time, Jack tenses, freezes, and then eventually his eyes close. He lowers his shoulders, surrendering himself to the touch. Years ago he would not have allowed this. A knotted hand eventually moves up to cover Gabriel’s, lovingly. There’s a heartbeat, and then Jack speaks.

“… I don’t want you getting caught up in this crap. It’s funeral arrangements and then deciding what to do with the farm. I can handle this.”

“I know you can, Jack, I’m not doubting that. But you’re dealing with a loss. What about emotional support? You must be devastated.”

Gabriel isn’t expecting the sudden harsh bite of laughter, loud and short, and Jack’s hand drops to his side immediately, the tension returning with a frightening speed. Gabriel is taken aback. For the first moment since he’s met him, Jack is totally unreadable. There’s something going on that he just can’t read, something that runs deeper than the scars on his skin, and it sickens him. Jack’s eyes are darting everywhere, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with… not anger, but something deeply intense. His lips are quivering, wanting to sneer and cry at once. And his hands, knotted and big and clenching, unsure what to do with themselves.

They’re trembling.

“I need a smoke,” is all he finally says. He turns away, out of the room, leaving Gabriel alone, hand still held mid-air, in the space where Jack had laid his cheek.

\--

Jack doesn’t say anything when Gabriel shows up at the jet with his bags packed for the weekend. His expression is not surprised, or angry, as Gabriel had expected it to be. Instead, it is simply defeated. He looks much older than his forty-five years. Gabriel jokes frequently about the greying hair, the early showing wrinkles, but it is the one topic where his teasing does not earn a smile. There’s a weariness behind those eyes that troubles Gabriel, something that goes deeper than grief.

Their eleven hours in the private jet are spent apart. Gabriel in the bedroom, trying and failing to catch some sleep. Jack in the gym, and then the bar. When the jet touches down they say nothing to one another when they exit. Gabriel will wait until Jack is ready to talk. He never responds well to being backed into a corner.

Indiana is flat, and warm, and their shirts cling to them standing in the parking lot of the car-rental. They hoist their luggage into the trunk. The time difference is somewhat disorienting; despite their long flight, it is only as if mere hours have passed, the day only beginning. Jack is sleep deprived and irritable, so Gabriel does not push when he insists in a rough voice that he’ll drive. A fight is the last thing they need, and he is far too tired to argue.

He passes out in the passenger seat and when he wakes, the right side of his cheek is sore from the sun exposure, and there’s an ache in his neck. He rubs it as he leaves the car with stiff movements to take his first look at Jack’s childhood home. They’re completely out of the way here, no other building apparent for miles, the social isolation clinging to this property like a bad stench. They’re at least thirty minutes out from the town, far from any other people.

There’s a smart wooden house at the front, slightly bigger than Gabriel expected, painted alabaster white and with a dusty rocking chair on the porch. Behind it, fields of corn stretch out until they disappear to scattered trees, and in the middle of all of them is a barn, browned with rust. The sight of it puts a deep discomfort in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach. It would not seem out of place as a prop in a horror film.

The screen door takes about three tries to open, stiff with a lack of use and rusted metal, only jamming open once Jack uses a rather aggressive shove with his shoulder. Gabriel gets the sense that this house doesn’t see much visitation if any- John Morrison was not a well liked man. The house itself isn’t nice enough to call rich, but not exactly shabby. It’s clean, neat, all dull cream carpets and glass cabinets of china plates propped in some rooms in an effort to replicate old fashioned America and a class to which the Morrisons did not belong. A comfortable way of life, but not a luxurious one.

Jack doesn’t stop to take in his old settings. All business, he walks straight past the dining and living rooms ahead to the stairway, stomping more than he needs to as he carries his dufflebag up the carpeted steps. Gabriel meanders behind, taking in the surroundings.This is like trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces. The house is… nice, and he’s not quite sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Pictures of family line the walls, every now and then interrupted by oil paintings of fruit or landscapes. Even if the whole Americana aesthetic doesn’t appeal to Gabriel himself, it’s hardly a bad house. A part of him had expected poor surroundings, small rooms, dirty furniture, something for Jack to have some misplaced shame about. Instead he’s assaulted with unappealing furniture and floral wallpaper.

Upstairs is about the same, with a bathroom of nice size and two bedrooms. One he presumes is Jack’s dad’s old room, the other must be his childhood bedroom. Even given the less than happy circumstances, he’s excited to catch a glimpse of a young Jack. Gabriel envisions embarrassing posters and awkward teenage photographs, left behind at Jack signing up at eighteen. Maybe old diaries. Instead, he finds a bare room, Jack just standing in the centre, paused. It’s nothing but dusty wooden floors and a stripped double bed, with a dresser and covered mirror in the corner. When Jack says nothing for a minute, that dread that Gabriel felt looking out at the barn returns.

“Spare bedroom?” he asks. His voice is croaked from the long, tiring journey. Jack doesn’t make to respond for a moment.

“... Apparently.”

Gabriel waits for a follow up explanation that never comes.

They unpack their bags swiftly, old habits showing themselves in the bare contents of their luggage. Enough to live off of, little enough to be able to pack again quickly. They are experts at not trusting the sustainability of a new home.

\--

Gabriel watches Jack discuss the funeral with the director, a portly man who, surprisingly, greets Jack with cold politeness. In almost every city around the world where they are recognised they are met with respect, at least, reverence at most. This man is neutral, edging on dislike as he speaks with Jack about his father’s body (embalmed), cause of death (heart disease), the funeral costs (high). There’s no doubt in Gabriel’s mind that this man knows who they are, given that Jack’s face is plastered on almost every Overwatch propaganda poster. Back in LA, every time Gabriel has visited since the Crisis ended, his presence has been met with want for autographs, with excited selfies, with business owners coming out to shake his hand. There are murals of him on brick walls, there are drinks named after him. The world may have forgotten what Gabriel Reyes sacrificed for it, but Los Angeles never did.

Apparently, this funeral home on the outskirts of Bloomington forgot about Jack.

Gabriel just sits and listens while they iron out the details. When offered the different funeral plans, Jack immediately chooses the cheapest, barest option, and Gabriel cannot help the way his eyebrows raise and turning to look at him incredulously. They both know Jack can afford a better funeral than this, and the director need only look at the expensive shirts they both wear to tell the same. He is professional, but his eyes are unfeeling, an accusation in his stare. The conversation continues, professional, direct. Gabriel glances over at his husband as they discuss the headstone, the coffin, the pastor, and Jack’s gaze is distant. He looks a million miles away, lost in his own head. Without thinking, Gabriel reaches over to touch him, placing his palm over his husband’s clenched hand held white-knuckle on the arm of the chair, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.

The funeral director’s eyes zone in on the action instantly, and his lips tighten in what can only be read as disapproval. The moment Gabriel catches it, Jack’s hand jerks away as if burned, anger in the action. A momentary, pregnant silence fills the room, and Gabriel is washed with guilt and horror. His affection has become something ugly. His mouth is dry and heart beats hard, deaf to the conversation awkwardly restarting, and now there is more of a sneer in the director’s voice, more of a snap in Jack’s. He’s never been more hyper-aware of the ring pressed against his chest, the cool metal on the chain. In times of trouble, his wedding band brings him comfort. Right now, it is an anchor.

\--

It’s under his skin, but he won’t let it upset him. He can’t. God knows that Jack is going through the stages right now, and Gabriel can’t get annoyed by the little manifestations of his grief. It screams Jack Morrison through and through; the stiffness, the unwillingness to talk, but as much as it vexes him, this isn’t the time to pick a fight. So he has to swallow down his pride, swallow that anger, and allow Jack room to be upset in his own way. He knows he can’t push this, he knows he can’t force the conversation, because it’ll only drive Jack further from him.

Still, the incident at the funeral home is eating away at him. Jack is a private man, he always has been. Never one for public affection or grand displays of emotion. He unfurls when they’re alone, allows himself to become vulnerable and soft, but even that momentary quiet comes from years of training himself, a whole lifetime of them knowing one another. So tightly wound, Gabriel once joked that if he swallowed coal, he’d shit out a diamond. Jack had laughed at that.

This felt different to those moments of hesitation. Even though Jack is private, even though the UN doesn’t want their rings on display, even though they only tell their close friends that they are married, Jack has never gotten outright angry at affection. Bashful, yes, but humiliated? Gabriel knows that what he did wasn’t wrong in the slightest, but even despite that, the reaction he felt from Jack and the director was a stab to the chest.

He isn’t stupid. On the way back to the farmhouse, Jack drives past a church Gabriel didn’t notice before. A sun bleached sign on the front screams **SINNERS REPENT**.

Jack doesn’t talk about it. Gabriel doesn’t talk about it.

\--

_Hot metal baked in the sun rusted with blood, the smell of decay and ash and meat-_

The visceral image burns through Gabriel’s mind and he wakes, bolting upright and clutching the bedsheets. He scrambles for anything to grab onto, searches blindly for the space on the bed beside him, and the panic has set in his brain, his heart is louder than the beating of a drum. As the initial horror begins to subside, swapped out for a calmer but horrible urge to cry, he looks at the pillow next to him and finds an absence. Jack is gone.

He reminds himself how to breathe and bunches over, running his hand over his closely shaved hair, and goes back to those breathing exercises he’s been learning. In the nose, out the mouth. Inhale, hold, exhale. War left more marks than those on his skin. Where’s Jack?

The paranoia makes him fear the worst, and he scrambles out of bed, lurching to the doorway to go check the bathroom. It’s empty, but the light’s on, and he can smell nicotine. An empty pack of cigarettes is the only thing in the wicker basket bin. Jack has gone through all twenty since the news.

Something isn’t right. Maybe it’s the residual fear from the dream, dripping into his subconscious like tar, but he’s shivering despite the humidity. His hands itch to go get the Xanax in his bag under the sink, but instead he turns to walk down the stairs. The carpet is soft under his bare feet, muffling his walk, and he goes slowly. He doesn’t know this house well enough to be comfortable in its dark, and his Blackwatch instincts are kicking in. He wishes he has his handgun.

“Jack?” he calls. The word echoes through the rooms, the hard end punctuated by his voice betraying him, cracking slightly. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, neither of them should be. “You here?”

The dining room is empty. He walks around to the living room, instead and pauses to take in the interior design. There’s two dusty couches here, and a fireplace. No television. A cross hangs over the mantelpiece, next to a framed painting of a blue-eyed Jesus. Unease floods Gabriel’s veins at the sight- Jack’s never been religious. He’s never mentioned a faith before. His eyes are drawn to a photo album next to the frame, resting against the wall, and he is struck by curiosity. There’s a moment of contemplation. He doesn’t want to invade his husband’s privacy, but they’re not exactly in a new relationship. Goddamn it, they’re married, and have been for almost twenty years. He’s allowed to look at his old photos. A petty part of him wants to know more.

He takes the album and sits on one of the couches, switching on an orange tinted lamp next to him, which resists flickering on. Embarrassing baby photos should be enough to calm him down from the nightmare. He blows dust off the book, and opens to the plastic covered sheet on the first page, greeted with wedding photos of two young people around their mid-twenties, a woman and a man. He’s struck by how much the woman shares her son’s features, that same bright blonde hair and smirking mouth, although her eyes are softer and darker, with laugh lines despite her youth. The man is tall, bearded, and it’s harder here to see the similarities with Jack. His eyes are blue, his skin is pale, but the beard masks his face shape, his body is leaner. Underneath in scribbled writing - _John & Hannah, July ‘19_. Gabriel moves to the next page.

There are a disproportionate amount of photos of Hannah Morrison, clearly taken by John. Birthday parties, walks in the park, trips to the zoo. They didn’t have the money to travel far, but Gabriel can see even from these photographs how much Jack’s parents loved one another.

Hannah pregnant, in a flowing sundress. Gabriel keeps going.

There’s something odd, now. There are still photos of Hannah and family, cousins and parents and a baby shower, but then there’s a blank space, followed by a photo of a now decidedly not-pregnant Hannah. ‘21. The year Jack was born. So where are the baby photos?

The next page is empty. So is the next.

A photo of Hannah. Blank, blank. A photo of Jack’s grandfather. And then a photo of John, and Hannah, smiling into the camera, and it makes Gabriel gape for a moment. Because with early greyed hair and a shaved beard, he notices something uncanny.

Jack looks exactly like his father.

“Gabriel?”

The voice makes Gabriel jump in his spot, and he raises his head to see an exhausted looking Jack coming in from outside, shutting the screen door behind him with a bang. There’s bags under his eyes, stubble gracing his jaw, and as he approaches, Gabriel notices the stench of tobacco. He realises that Jack’s gaze is not focused on him so much as it is fixed on the book in Gabriel’s hands, and he closes it slowly, no point in trying to hide it now. Jack’s jaw goes stiff, swallowing anger.

“Where were you?” Gabriel asks, avoiding talking about the photographs, trying to search Jack’s face for an answer. He’s still being unnervingly unreadable. Gabriel hates not knowing what’s going on in his head, despises the mystery. Jack looks as if he is contemplating lying, or not telling him, and then he shrugs.

“Smoking in the barn. Why are you up?” Gabriel puts the book down on the cushion next to him and mirrors the shrug, a knot formed in his chest. There’s something so wrong about all this.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Gabriel doesn’t expand on it- if Jack is going to be stubborn, so will he. Their eyes meet, and there’s a heartbeat where he’s sure this will become an argument, watching Jack’s nostrils flare and the annoyance in his eyes, but soon the moment vanishes. Jack goes to pick the album up and set it back on the mantlepiece. There’s no accusation in his movements, no anger at Gabriel looking through his things, but instead Gabriel gets the sense that he’s… embarrassed. Maybe that’s what this is about, Jack’s mother. Gabriel doesn’t stop to think before he’s asking, “... How old were you when she passed?”

Jack stiffens and turns to look at Gabriel, expressionless besides the tension in his posture. “... Eleven.”

Gabriel waits for the story that never comes, and the silence fills the room up suffocatingly. There’s a sudden flash of anger in Gabriel. Jack doesn’t get to give him the silent treatment for no reason. Why does he deserve this? What has he done wrong? No matter what he does, Jack will find some way to be annoyed by it. Frustration boils in his blood and he waits expectantly, because he’s sick of being the one to force the conversation. He waits for something, anything, eyes boring into Jack’s skull hoping he’ll open up. At this point, even an accusation would be better by the gratuitous silence.

Instead, eventually, Jack lowers his gaze, pausing before heading towards the stairs with heavy footsteps. They may as well have screamed at one another from how the adrenaline is pumping in Gabriel’s veins.

He waits half an hour, takes the Xanax, and goes to sleep. Their dress blues are hanging on the closet door for the morning to come.

\--

Jack clasps his hands around his engraved lighter. Rain drips down his wrists. To anyone else he might seem to be in prayer. He thinks for a moment, brow drawn, his eyes leagues away, before he gives it a flick and breathes a flame into the world. It hisses out a second later, drowned by the summer showers, and Jack bites out a curse.

Gabriel fumbles in his jacket and pulls out an old lighter, one he used countless times during the Crisis. He doesn’t use it anymore.

“Here.”

Jack doesn’t thank him. He just looks at him from the corner of an eye before taking the offering and tries to light with it instead.

Gabriel chooses to watch rain slick down granite headstones. It’s easier to read the names of those long dead than to watch Jack fall apart. The grass is vibrant and healthy under the late August rains. Flowers set on graves shiver and shake. Jack is shaking, too.

Three people attend John Morrison’s funeral. The pastor is one of them.

\--

Usually after a funeral with the Reyes family, the ceremony only marked the beginning of the day. The family would go back to Gabriel’s house, or whoever was hosting, for beer and food and stories about those who passed. Religion matters to the Reyes family, but it does not overwhelm their ceremonies. Instead, it gives the events context, a reason to get together and remember.

There is no family here. There’s no gathering afterwards, no drinks or dinner or any real reconciliation with the event of John’s death. Instead, they get back to the house, and immediately Jack shoots out of sight, gone to change into his civvies. He emerges minutes later, eyes hazy, determination behind the fatigue, and he says nothing as he marches to the dining with arms full of documents. The property issues still have to be sorted out, and Jack doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow to start. If it were up to him, he mutters, they’d be going back to Switzerland tonight. Gabriel doesn’t bother trying to convince him to stop and pause before diving into work, knowing he’ll only be snapped at. It pisses him off that he can already predict when he’ll be turned on, pisses him off that he can’t be a normal spouse without getting death glares.

All Gabriel can do is wander around the house, occasionally offering Jack coffee or help, and each time he is pushed away with increased snap in his husband’s voice. Eventually he gives up, since apparently Jack is so damn capable on his own, and he heads upstairs with his fists balled. He can’t stand the silence, the refusal to talk about it. The refusal to let Gabriel in no matter how patient or understanding he’s trying to be. Is he doing something wrong? Is he missing something? It makes his teeth grind in frustration. Jack has always been stubborn, but never to this extent. Never to the point where Gabriel feels _guilt_ for trying to help.

Contact. He needs some goddamn human contact.

He tries to call Ana on flighty signal, and after ten rings she picks up, exhaustion in her voice.

“Commander Reyes.”

“Ana, hey. How’s everything back at base?”

“You don’t have to worry about us. Lieutenant Wilhelm is handling the operations, I’m dealing with the UN and paperwork, and McCree has Blackwatch under control.”

“Ana, c’mon. This isn’t a work call.” She pauses.

“Well, why did you not say so, old man?” Gabriel is relieved at the sound of her chuckle, and he lies back on the mattress, groaning softly at the rest. There’s comfort in the voice of someone who isn’t only communicating through grunts or body language. Ana’s velvet voice becomes softer. “You sound upset. How is he?” Gabriel’s expression sours.

“He’s… Dealing, I guess. Not that he’s letting me know anything that goes on in that head of his. It’s trying to draw blood from a stone.” Gabriel hears Ana sigh on the other end.

“People handle death in their own way. Perhaps he needs to be alone for some time. I would not take it personally, Gabriel, although I’m sure it’s frustrating. He can be quite pig-headed.”

“Understatement. And it’s not only that, there’s...” Gabriel doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. A silence wedges between them, and he can hear the sounds of the busy base in the background of Ana’s end. He’d give anything to be back there. “... I wanna take my mind off things. How’s Fareeha?”

“Gabriel, as much as I would love to talk about this, it's getting rather late here. And you do realise that, given the absence of a Strike Commander, we are…”

“Busy. Yeah. I get it.” Gabriel tries to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“You know that I would talk if I had more time. Perhaps in the morning?”

“I’ll be asleep. Time zones.” He stretches out on the mattress, closing his eyes. His body is exhausted. He feels like he hasn’t rested since that short sleep before that fucking phone call in Zurich. “Look, don’t worry about it, Ana. We should be back day after next, and things will go back to normal. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright, Gabriel. Salām.”

Gabriel doesn’t say goodbye back. He listens to the call end and then closes his eyes. What the hell is he meant to do here for the next two days? He’s going to drive himself insane cooped up in here, overthinking everything about the photographs and Jack’s reactions and the funeral home. He doesn’t want to think about him anymore. His whole world doesn’t revolve around Jack Morrison.

The rain’s dying down.

He changes into warm jeans and his comfort hoodie, adjusting the beanie on his head as he heads down the stairs. He needs fresh air to clear his head, he needs exercise, anything to get out of this damn house. He needs to focus on himself for once. Gabriel considers himself a patient man, and he wants more than anything to help Jack, but everyone has a breaking point. How are you meant to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?

He pauses at the front door, palm on the handle, and turns his head to see if Jack has any reaction to him walking out. His stomach churns seeing him. Unmoving, unfocused. He’s hunched over the desk, hands in his greyed hair, a recently put out cigarette in the ashtray next to the stacks of documents and files he’s had to pull up. It’s almost frightening how distant his gaze is, how he stares at the desk, something beyond distress.

“... I’m going for a walk.”

Jack doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t react. Gabriel wants to walk up to him, comfort him, offer his hand. But Gabriel can’t. He can’t keep pulling himself apart to try and make Jack whole. Not when, no matter what he’ll do, it’ll go unnoticed and unappreciated. And it breaks him. If Gabriel could, he’d tear out his own heart if it meant those he loved would never have to stop breathing. He knows, he _knows_ it isn’t romantic, it’s self-destructive, but that’s always been how he’s treated others, as if they are above him. Only therapy has made himself aware. Jack’s bad habits are in the forms of cigarettes and stony silences and chewed nails and sleepless nights. Gabriel’s are in trying to fix people who refuse to be fixed.

Which is why there’s another part of him that wants to scream at Jack to wake up, that wants to shake his shoulders and make him see how much Gabriel is breaking his own bones to try and make things okay. He has to break out of this. He has to go, for the sake of his health.

Gabriel bows his head, and finally tears his eyes away, heading out the door to the humid, cloudy day outside. He searches for the forgiveness in himself to leave his guilt behind.

\--

The dirt has turned to mud in the rainfall, already beginning to cake over from the humidity of the air, and it is ruining Gabriel’s boots as he treks through the natural pathway around the house. He pays it no heed. He’s wade through worse than wet dirt before. The fresh air was a good idea, because out here can breathe properly, the world is less muggy, and there’s some clarity in his soul. He kicks at a rock and he tests the weight of it against his boot. It makes him feel alive.

Gabriel has his fair share of bad days, but this weekend is something else. This is a bad taste in his mouth, the uselessness, guilt. He can chalk this down to the paranoia, he knows that it can make him irrational, the PTSD putting him on edge, easily irritating him these days. At the same time, though, he’s trying hard to not disregard his emotions either. It’s a tightrope, this recovery, trying to acknowledge his issues without letting them control him. He reminds himself under his breath of the mental exercises, the positive thinking. He knows this extends beyond his own brain, but he wants to pull his weight in these difficult times too. He needs to relax, and calm himself, and maybe he can be better equipped to deal with this mess.

There’s nothing to see except corn and that ugly barn, and beyond that, peeking over the fields, those trees he noticed when they first arrived. Gabriel has a restless need to waste time and stay out of the house as long as humanly possible, and he begins to walk towards the trees, wondering how long it’ll take to reach. The corn is towering, and spiked to the touch, not at all what Gabriel expected. He learns this after earning some scratches to his palm, and the sting wakes him up from the dissociative state he was leaning into.

Out here, he can compartmentalize everything, fit it into a glass box and examine it to think of the next best move. So, he thinks.

_Why am I reacting this way?_

(because jack won’t talk to you.  
he’s shutting you out, keeping you away.  
he doesn’t trust you.  
he thinks you’re stupid.)

 

_Or maybe he doesn’t know where to begin? Maybe it’s too much to say aloud? He’s a proud man, he doesn’t get upset in front of people._

 

(so it’s okay how he’s treating you?  
you don’t care that he’s hurting you?)

 

_His dad has died. He’s upset…_

 

(does he seem upset?  
would that give him the right to lash out?  
did you lash out after the bombs?)

 

Gabriel stops and shudders. He notices how close he is to that barn. It’s ugly, and old, and reddening where it was one chrome. He can smell the decay off it from here. Logically, he knows that it didn’t always look this way, that it was once shining and new, but Gabriel wonders to himself if Jack ever got that same bad feeling from the barn, like the stench of death. He pulls up his hood when drizzle begins to caress his cheeks, and he continues to walk, passing the old building by.

_… Jack might have been close to his father._

(you know that isn’t the case.)

There wasn’t a trace of Jack in that house. Not a single photo. Not a whiff. Someone removed those pictures. Someone cleared out his bedroom. Someone wanted to scrub out every trace of Jack Morrison that they could. Gabriel comes to a conclusion, and it’s unbearable. Jack did something that his parents didn’t approve of. There was something in Jack that they hated so much that it overshadowed the love of a family. It’s a thought that Gabriel can only imagine, because it bears no place in reality. He can’t fathom that happening in a real life situation, let alone to his husband.

What parent disowns their child?

He’s reached the trees. They aren’t nearly as impressive up close, but they’re tall enough to cast a dark shadow in the grey summer afternoon. If it weren’t for the heat, you wouldn’t be able to tell that it was August. He breathes out, slowly, and looks back at how far he’s walked. Gabriel has become so caught up in his head, he barely noticed the twenty minutes that passed to walk the entire, impressive length of the fields. He turns again, cranes his neck up to look at the trees. It’s not so much a woods as a scattered amount of trees, and not too far down the way, a fence that circles the property peeks out behind shrubs. He can picture a young Jack climbing these trees, a young rascal.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps looking up at the branches, overhead thickening into a dark roof over his head. There is momentary calm and he just stands there to appreciate the thick air, the nature, the smell of leaves at summer’s end. Out of the corner of his eye, suddenly, he spots something odd. Gabriel sees metal. In a tree?

He squints. Even with his enhanced sight, it’s hard to understand what exactly he’s looking at. It seems to be a flat tin roof, but placed and hammered haphazardly to the branches and trunk. Gabriel’s curiosity is getting the better of him, and he wants to waste time, anyway, so he rolls his sleeves up and heads to the tree base to climb it.

The wood is wet with rain, but it is old, and the branches thick, so he doesn’t risk slipping, and his strong limbs having no trouble scaling the tree. Climbing throws him back to youth summer camp with friends, the freedom of childhood. Playing hide and seek in the woods, Gabriel would always be able to find the best spots, the best nooks and crannies. He’s smiling to himself at the memories as he hoists himself up and goes to crawl onto the platform. It’s surprisingly sturdy- at first he’s nervous to put his weight on the rusty thing, but it holds him easily. This was meant to be sat on, despite the short width. He takes up half of the space, sitting here cross-legged, and for a moment he cannot comprehend what this thing is for. And then he notices objects.

Large fingers brush a cracked dinner plate, coated with dirt and leaves from years of abandonment. Next to it, an ashtray in similar condition, and a bunch of filthy rope, long enough to almost reach the ground when Gabriel curiously pushes it over the edge. He ignores the insects that scramble after their home is pushed away, because he is struck with an image.

Someone, using that rope to climb up here. Hoisting it after himself so he couldn’t be followed. Sitting up here to eat, alone. To smoke, in secret. On a platform far too small for an adult man, or even a teenager. A hiding space, he thinks, for a young boy.

On the bark, there is an engraving. He reads it, and bile rises in his throat, and he can’t stay here any longer. The humid air is not breathable enough, and he doesn’t want to face the evidence he is seeing before him. Gabriel’s lips tremble, allowing his fingertips glide over the small, juvenile writing on the tree, which he comprehends and subtracts. He bows his head, and buries his face in knotted hands, and can’t understand.

On the bark, there is an engraving.

J.M. 10/9/33

\--

Jack is nowhere to be seen when Gabriel comes home. His paperwork is still strewn about the dining table. His ashtray is fuller.

A quick search of the house tells him that Jack has gone out to meet with property dealers, since the car is gone alongside his jacket. Gabriel is running on autopilot. He goes to the kitchen to make dinner with their bare groceries, and he eats, alone. He leaves a plate of noodles on the counter for Jack to eat, with a note beside it to heat it up when he finds it.

The weariness in Gabriel’s bones is not only from his lack of sleep. There’s a deeper fatigue there, one he hasn’t been able to shake off since SEP made him a guinea pig, a restlessness that goes beyond adrenaline. He turns in early, crawls into bed, and sleeps, alone.

He wakes, alone.

It’s dark. He bolts upright. He clutches the bed sheets. He scrambles, he searches. He reminds himself how to breathe. He bunches over. In the nose, out the mouth. Inhale, hold, exhale.

Where’s Jack? Where was he the night before?

_“Smoking in the barn.”_

Gabriel is driven by frustration and blind panic. He gets to his feet, shoves on socks and boots and he grabs at his phone. He bounds down the stairs, heads out the door without closing it behind him, into the hot, humid night. If he had not seen it himself, he wouldn’t have known of the rain that day.

The heat is oppressive, and he’s sweating through his shirt as he jogs, following his phone light. He doesn’t bother with the main pathway, which meanders and takes too long. Gabriel is shoving his way through corn, his breathing haggard, ignoring the harsh scratches to his bare arms in his t-shirt. He itches for his missing handgun once more, and his panic aches inside of him, because for a moment he’s sure he’s made a mistake, that he’s lost and that he’s going to get killed in this cornfield for sure--

And he pushes through another few crops, and he’s directly at the door of the barn. Jack has pried them wide open, and there he is, his frustrating beautiful terrible husband, sitting on a shitty plastic white chair in the middle of the abandoned space. The lights inside are flickering, and low quality, and he is turned away. Gabriel can see the smoke of his cigarette from here.

He wants to hold him. He wants to curse him.

He steps towards the light, and Jack turns his head.

There’s a heartbeat.

“Those things will be the death of you.” Gabriel wasn’t sure what he thought would come out of his mouth, but it wasn’t that. Jack keeps those eyes fixed on him. Their colour is sharp, but that piercing blue has been dulled to a sad grey over the years. Slowly, he takes the cigarette from his mouth and the smoke dances around his face, reflecting the white of those artificial lights. Gabriel can’t see those eyes, for an instant.

“Go back to bed.” It’s dismissive, past the point of annoyed, just lazy, and it roots itself under Gabriel’s skin. He doesn’t want a fight. He isn’t here for a goddamn fight. But damn if he won’t hit back. He watches Jack’s head turn again and he steps closer, almost at the entrance of the barn.

“You know I’m not one of your subordinates, right?” Gabriel snaps. He’s trying to keep a shake from his voice. “I’m not gonna heel at your command, _Morrison_.” Jack turns his head again, faster this time. He sees the grimace in his jaw, and he takes the cigarette from his lips, taps it against the ashtray he has perched on the arm of the plastic chair.

“Gabriel.”

“Don’t _do_ that. Why are you doing that?” The shake is obvious now, and Jack turns properly, body twisted. That steely expression is still there, but now it’s mingled with confusion. A tinge of concern that’s only overwhelmed by his anger. They’re both teeming with it, frustration and tension. They have undergone a metamorphosis. Digging up the graves of Jack’s past has made them entirely different people to whom they were two nights back in a bedroom in Zurich; that night may as well have been a lifetime ago.

“... Gabriel, go back to the house.”

“No, Jack.” He steps inside, watches the dust dance around the smoke. The smell of hay and dirt is overwhelming, only countered by the tobacco. Jack gets to his feet, still holding that cigarette, and for a moment he looks lost.

“I want to be alone.” He’s quieter.

“Isn’t that a surprise?” Gabriel is surprised at the bite to his own voice, and he knows he shouldn’t feel so satisfied seeing Jack’s eyes flash in anger.

“What’s your damn issue?” There’s a slur to his words, their ends merging into the starts of others, and it only takes a moment of his eyes searching to notice the half empty bottle of whiskey on the ground next to where his feet were before.

“Why have you been drinking?” he asks, angry. Gabriel’s not paying any heed to his tone now. Jack scowls and turns to go hide the bottle, forgetting for a moment that there’d be no point. Then he stops, shrugs with loose movements, and goes back to smoking. It’s out of character, troubling as all hell. Gabriel’s lips tighten and he takes another step closer, searching Jack’s evasive eyes. They’re dulled, but he’s not properly drunk. Not yet. Gabriel won’t rise to the bait, won’t speak in his place. Right now, Jack has to talk, not Gabriel. He stand back and folds his arms, expectant. The silence between them is uncomfortable, but necessary.

“... I’m an adult. I’m allowed to drink,” Jack says. His eye contact is horrendous, focused  
anywhere but Gabriel’s face.

“Adults don’t act this way.”

“Act what way?”

“You know what way!” Gabriel catches Jack’s eyes flickering, jumping to his face for a second- and then away again, uncomfortable. His body language is slowly coiling up. Arms folded, shoulders raising, discomfort on that face. Gabriel needs to push past the need to let it go. They need this conversation.

“I don’t. I don’t know.”

“Avoiding me. Shoving me away, when all I’m trying to do is _help_ , Jack!” He didn’t mean for his voice to switch to pleading. His expression breaks and bares the upset in his heart, eyes wide and searching Jack’s own, who seems determined to not look at Gabriel properly. “I mean, what have I done, Jack? What have I done to you?”

“Nothing.” He’s quick to answer, defensive, jumping to look at Gabriel again with an open expression of surprise, before closing up again. Nervously, he starts to puff on the cigarette, staring down at the floor.

“That’s a lie. You-- ”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then what’s the problem? _Please_ , goddammit--”

“This isn’t anything to do with you, it’s my problem, I’m dealing with it. You don’t need to take this personally--”

“I’m your _husband_!” His voice breaks. There’s silence.

“... I wanna be alone.”

“You’ve had two days alone.”

“I want to think--”

“About what? I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to treat this situation, Jack, when you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Because you don’t need to be involved!”

“Don’t you get it? This is what marriage is. It’s letting someone else get involved, even if it’s scary! Sometimes it’s messy, and uncomfortable, but you try to make it work. You have to, or…” Gabriel’s expression wavers.

“... Or what.”

“Or what’s the point in being married at all?”

“Gabriel.” Fear, in those eyes.

“No, don’t. That isn’t what I’m saying,” Gabriel’s exhaustion is teeming in his voice, his body language. “I’m scared, worried. I can’t be your husband if you won’t let me.”

“You being here is enough for me.”

“How am I supposed to know that? You’re acting as if I’m a burden, as if everything I’ve done has been wrong. Everything I’ve done has embarrassed you, or pissed you off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pushing me away, flinching when I tried to hold your goddamn hand!”

“That’s not--”

“Not talking to me, glaring when, God forbid, I try to help you with the property.”

“I can handle it.”

“Letting me in isn’t weak!”

“What do you want me to say, Gabriel?”

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong! I want to help you! You aren’t upset about your father dying, this is something else.” There’s a hard silence. Jack’s eyes go steely, and he clenches his jaw. There’s an ugly pause.

“You weren’t close... I saw that photo album. There’s not a single picture of you in there.” Jack doesn’t reply. Gabriel realises this is news to him. His cigarettes burned out, and he looks down at it, flicks it to the barn floor and steps on it, slowly, to put it out.

“What else did you find?”

Gabriel hesitates to reply.

“I found… A treehouse.” Jack looks doesn’t know how to respond. He had forgotten about that place, or maybe tried to forget. Gabriel swallows hard, now a little afraid to push more. “You built it yourself. Alone. You were young. It was…”

“A hiding spot.” Jack’s voice is harsh from the cigarettes, the whiskey, and he finally raises his chin. His eyes are a million miles away, gazing at Gabriel with no focus behind them. Gabriel raises his hand to reach out and comfort him, and he steps closer.

“Jack…” Gabriel’s heart is aching. “I don’t know how to help you. Not if you don’t give me… Something. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Jack is gulping air and shrugging, trying to pretend this isn’t happening. Gabriel’s finally close enough to touch him, and he extends a hand towards Jack’s bare arm, slowly. Jack shrugs away before he makes contact, now guilt washed on his face. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react. He doesn’t want to open up.

“What you’re feeling, Jack, it won’t go away at will. Believe me. I know.”

“That’s easy for you to say.You’re naturally good at this stuff, Gabriel. Wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

“What?” Gabriel is taken aback by that. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jack pulls away, goes to sit on the plastic chair, hands shaking. Gabriel looks down at him, watches him bury his face in callused hands and sigh.

“No, I’m not. I’ve always admired that about you.” Jack raises his head to look up at Gabriel, weary. He looks as if he is pleading to a merciful god. “You laugh when you’re happy. You cry, even at movies, it’s not a weakness to you. You get angry, but it isn’t too much. You’re healthy. You’re fully formed.” Jack’s throat bobs and he hangs his head again, rubs at his nape. A man on trial.

“Do you really think it comes easily to me?”

Now it is Jack’s turn to look confused. He casts his eyes upwards, searching Gabriel’s face. “Doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Jack, this is hard, even for me. Especially for me. I don’t roll out of bed completely at peace with myself. God, I mean…” Gabriel laughs bitterly and starts to pace. He’s unbelievably frustrated with Jack’s behavior. “You know I’m not an emotional cushion, right? I’m not naturally equipped to be the absorber of your issues. Being emotional, helping myself, this is hard for me! I find it hard enough to allow myself to open up and ignore how I used to see masculinity, let alone be your rock.” Gabriel is spitting out his words now, and he can see Jack cringing.

“I wasn’t trying to imply-”

“I know. I know. But you did imply.” Gabriel pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. “... Taking meds, and going to that doctor, those are among the hardest things I’ve ever pushed myself to do. I don’t encourage you to do it because it’s easy for me, and I assume it’ll be easy for you too. I encourage you to do it because I see you, and you need help, Jack. It’s fucking _hard_. I sit on that couch, and I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. But you can’t turn a blind eye on it and pretend you’re okay. You can only try and keep that facade up for so long before you break.”

“I’ve managed okay for this long.”

“Look at yourself, Jack.”

There’s a silence again.

Gabriel watches Jack slowly pull another cigarette from the pack, push it between his lips. He isn’t shaking anymore. Instead, an eerie calmness has come over his expression, and he is a million miles away, resorting back to muscle memory when he lights the Marlboro. Jack takes a long draw of it, and allows his breath to hold for a millisecond too long so it burns his chest. He breathes the smoke out with expert precision, and euphoria passes over his face for a mere moment of temporary relief. And then he unfolds his arm, extends the pack towards Gabriel in a silent offering.

“You know I quit.”

“It’s gonna be a long night.”

Gabriel doesn’t move from his stiff position. Defeated, the arm lowers. Jack contemplates, before shoving the lighter into his jeans pocket and leaning back, propping one ankle onto the other knee. He keeps flexing and balling his hand, nervously, in a rhythm that Gabriel can’t understand. Jack keeps his eyes fixed on his own movement.

“... Where do you want me to start?”

“Did your dad--” Gabriel pauses. Is that too forthright?

“Spit it out.”

“Jack, I’m not trying to be…”

“Be what? Pushy?” Jack’s voice is becoming angrier, bitterness in every syllable. Gabriel doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? He turns and moves to sit on a small divider, wishing he had his hoodie with him, despite the summer heat. He’s shivering despite it. He swallows thickly, his throat working, and his lips are tightened into a thin line, and then he busies himself. Gabriel keeps his attention on Jack, waiting, trying to show him his patience. Trying to make him know he’s safe.

“In places like this,” Gabriel eventually hears him croak, “Fathers like John Morrison ain’t all that uncommon.” His lips seek out the cigarette immediately after; the effort of speaking is too much to bear for him, the taste of tobacco recharges him. Gabriel is breathless waiting for him to continue, even though it’s the last thing he wants to hear. He wants to pretend none of this is real. The shake in Jack’s wrist is too terrible to witness. The cicadas screech in understanding.

“Did he hit you?” Gabriel doesn’t want to say the words. Even saying them, it doesn’t sound real. They are separate words he can’t string together, words which bear no meaning. He can’t visualise what they entail. He doesn’t want to. Jack’s throat moves.

“... It’s just something that happens to kids around here.” Gabriel doesn’t know how to react. He can’t breathe.

“Did he abuse you in-- other ways?”

“Not the ways you’re thinking of.”

“It’s all bad, Jack.”

“I should be grateful that it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. There’s worse evil in this world.”

“That doesn’t mean what you had was good.” Jack just smokes, desperately, wanting to fixate on anything but this conversation. He doesn’t believe Gabriel, and there is a fear in his eyes. “You don’t need to compare your experiences to others, Jack,” Gabriel says weakly.

“How can I not?” Jack replies. “We both saw what people went through in that war. What you went through.”

“Don’t talk about that.” Gabriel’s heart aches thinking of his family, thinking of his home. He’s trying not to take this personally. “That’s different.”

“It isn’t. Everyone faced something in that war. So why am I--” Gabriel loses all the air in his lungs watching Jack crumble. It’s only for a second, but the expression that crosses his face is unlike anything Gabriel has ever seen on his husband. He hears the shallow breaths and the desperate way he attaches himself to that cigarette. It’s his lifeline. He’s lucky, in a desperately ironic way, that the Soldier Enhancement Program, which gave him so many reasons to smoke, is the reason his fingers aren’t stained. The reason he’s not riddled with cancers. Seeing those cigarettes is a sudden shock to Gabriel’s mind, and he finally connects the dots to those small, white, round scars on the back of Jack’s arms and shoulders. He swallows, hard.

“I’d honestly be more concerned if this wasn’t affecting you,” Gabriel admits. He hates how Jack is sitting, moving, unsure what to do with himself. Something awful dawns on Gabriel and he clasps his hands together, nervous to ask, knowing he has to anyway. He needs to know. “Is this why you never wanted to talk about having kids?”

Jack’s gaze jumps up and he squirms, caught in the chair. He starts that clenching motions again, trying to stop himself doing something else with his hands. His voice is hushed when he replies, nervous to explain his reasoning. “... His dad did the same to him. I’m assuming the same thing happened the generation before that, too.”

“Jack…”

“Kids are so vulnerable, Gabe.” Jack’s wince at the end of his sentence says enough. Gabriel’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

“You wouldn’t do that. You aren’t that kind of man.”

“What kind of man? A violent one?” Jack holds a stare, and Gabriel now breaks away, staring at his boots. They both saw what Jack was capable of during the Crisis.

“You don’t take pleasure in hurting people. There’s a difference between being abusive and being forced to make difficult choices during a war.”

“I’d make a bad father, Gabriel.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s too late for us,” Gabriel replies bitterly.

“Not for you, come on. You have Jesse.”

“That’s not the same as raising a child of my own, and you know it.”

Jack shuts up about it. There’s another bout of silence. Outside, the corn rustles in a warm breeze. Outside, Gabriel sees a barn owl fly by so fast he dismisses it as his imagination.

“How many packs have you gone through?” Jack’s lips twist and he turns his head, ashamed.

“... Five, since the call.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Jack shrugs. He finishes the cigarette and stubs it into the ashtray, pauses and then starts to pull out a new one, before stopping himself. He opts instead for a sip from the bottle of whiskey. Gabriel doesn’t make to stop him, but he sighs to himself, rubs his face.

“... Did he hurt you before your mom passed?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it get worse after your mom passed?”

A catch in his voice. “Yeah.”

Gabriel needs to stay calm here. If they’re going to talk about this, if Jack’s finally going to open up, even only a small amount, he can’t break. Even if every part of him wants to weep thinking of Jack’s stolen childhood. He swallows hard and tries to resist getting up to touch him, to hold him. That’s what Gabriel wants, not Jack.

“You don’t have to say anything more, Jack, not if you don’t want to. But you can, if you want to. I just want to know when you’re going through hard times, so I know how to help you, so I know how to approach it. I’m just… tired of not knowing where I’m going wrong.”

“... I was raised a religious man, Gabe.”

“I guessed so. Jesus on the mantlepiece.”

“That photo stared at me every evening while I said my prayers.” Gabriel is at a loss for words. Jack’s head is bowed, expression concealed. His words begin slow.

“Before Ma died, we weren’t so devout. Religious, sure, but not fanatical. Dad still believed in angels and purgatory and corporal punishment, he believed in his right to bear arms and he believed some people were inherently better than others, but he wasn’t so bad before Ma. He changed overnight, became the scarier version of himself. He thought those accidents didn’t happen to good people, and that it happened because we hadn’t prayed enough, because we were evil, we needed to be good, we had to be punished, I had to be punished.

“The regular corporal stuff was normal, for the area. Bruises were my school uniform. I fit in, for a bit, but once you hit a certain age, your quirks become things that make you a freak. If you can’t blend in, you’re a target. Being aggressive and stand-offish didn’t make me cool, it made me a loner. Getting into fights didn’t make me tough, it made me scary. I was angry, so angry, Gabriel, I thought it’d burn me up from the inside. I wouldn’t talk for days at a time, I stayed out late as I could, alone, hiding, burying the way I wanted to act, buried still, fucking suffocating, smashing bottles in the woods and--

“And he hated it, he hated how I acted, how I talked, how I didn’t talk, how I moved, how I looked at people, he wanted a son, a man, a real one, he wanted me to be the younger him. John Morrison Jr, in print on the birth cert, and he despised Jack. He wanted anything at all to mold me into himself. And I tried to be that boy more than anything. I wanted to impress him, because maybe a part of me thought that, _if you can fit in, if you can be the son he wants, then it’ll stop_. I thought my pain was brought upon myself because I didn’t act how he wished I acted. I thought I needed to be straight and cruel and intolerant and I thought I needed to pray and I thought I needed to bury everything else so deep that nobody can reach it. I needed to suffocate how I felt with dirt. And girls were enough, I hoped, I thought, and I had to cast my eyes when I saw men, I tried to cut out my heart so dad wouldn’t know it was there. I dreamed about boys and I woke up in tears so many nights because that was not what God’s plan was, that was not what dad’s plan was. My faith was strained--

“And I tried to tell someone of my situation, looking for advice, for guidance. He was someone I trusted, and I said my fears aloud, my wants, one in the same, and he saw it as an invitation. He saw an offer, an opportunity. I didn’t know what was happening. And I came away from it and I had shrunk even more, I couldn’t breathe thinking about telling a soul ever again, and I found other ways to bury it. I thought I could find heaven at the bottom of a bottle, or in the shirt of a girl, and I ignored the festering part of myself that got louder every day. I smoked my way through packets upon packets of cigarettes, burning them away endlessly and I--

“I hoped it’d stop, I contemplated making it stop so much it bored into my skull and I could barely move some days, and I began to doubt God. The one thing I was always been able to turn to, He was the one who made me think my thoughts were impurity and my lust was demonic. Under that roof he and He were the same being, dad and God, dad and god, Dad and god, and I ended up not knowing who I was praying to as I knelt before that mantelpiece every evening, you end up not knowing what you’re praying for. So I started to dream of a world outside of Church signs and cornfields and I hoped it would be better out there than it is in Nowhere, Indiana. Because if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t know what I would do. No- I knew what I’d do, and it terrified me.

“And then I met a boy. He was... so gorgeous and handsome. New kid at school, popular, openly gay, and he smiled at me and my heart became a drill in my rib cage. I was so damn scared, but it was at a point where nothing in life really mattered to me. I wasn’t sure what the fuck I was doing. I never told dad about him, I never told him he was the reason why I signed up for football, the reason I would come home so late.

“But it crashed down, it had to. We got caught kissing by a team member. Small towns have big ears. And I come home one Friday evening, and dad’s there, he’s praying by Jesus, on his knees. I’d never seen him cry before. Not even with Ma. A real Midwestern man’s man, always went on about how boys don’t cry. And he screamed. And he punched. And he pleaded to God. He dragged me… here. Locked me in.”

Gabriel only realizes by now how he’s trembling, how his jaw aches from clenching it. His breathing is shallow, both from his emotion and the unbreathable, suffocating air, and it hits him that _here_ is the barn, the place Jack is sitting. Gabriel's hands are white knuckled.

“You don’t have to give me details,” he manages to respond. He desperately doesn’t want to seem pitying, but he equally as much wants to sob and bring Jack to his chest. He can’t think of these things happening to the man in front of him. Trying to visualize it makes him nauseous.

He wants to pretend it isn’t real. He wants to ignore the old brown stain against the concrete divider.

“It lasted all weekend. On Sunday he finally took me to a hospital out of town. He dropped me at the doors, didn’t stay with me, didn’t even set a foot in that building. I think that was his idea of Christian forgiveness, not letting me die. Or perhaps he was just scared of getting arrested. The doctors asked who did it, asked for my medical insurance, was I covered, and I didn’t know what to tell them. I didn’t know. The moment I could walk again I snuck out of hospital, took a bus back home. Dad wasn’t in and I just… Took my stuff, stole some money, and left.

“I don’t know what my plan was. I expected to die within days. But then. News reports of Omnic attacks along the West Coast. They wanted people to sign up. It was my one shot to have a life of my own, same way it’s a shot for so many kids who try to escape small towns.”

“And then you met me.”

“And then I met you.”

They pause, and look at one another. Jack’s breathing is haggard, panicked, and it breaks Gabriel’s heart with every harsh exhale. He sounds unbelievably tired. Gabriel’s in a no better state, his throat restrictive, a wetness stinging his eyes.

“... I remember you had a bruise on your forehead. Mostly faded, but I could tell it had been nasty,” Gabriel says quietly, steadily. Jack breaks the eye contact and stares at the ground. His hands are knotted and tangled with one another. “I was stupid, and nineteen, and I didn’t stop to think where you’d gotten it from.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Jack’s voice is weary, broken down. It cracks from overuse, having become so accustomed to muteness. “Not when I didn’t want you to know.” He raises his head slightly, and gives a tired smile. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m real good at keeping private.”

“Yeah, you got a knack for it,” Gabriel manages, the hint of a smile on his lips, despite the pain and hurt in his expression. He sweeps a thumb over his knuckles to try and stop his shaking. “Maybe we should swap jobs.”

“Think you could work the bright blue?”

“Oh, goes without saying I’d redesign the outfits. I can’t see you in Blackwatch gear.”

“Reckon I could pull off the dark, edgy look.”

“You wish, Morrison.”

For a moment, it’s all okay. And then the full weight of everything Jack has told him crashes down.

“... You kept all of that in for so long. Who have you talked to about this?” Gabriel asks in a tight voice. No response. The air is knocked from his lungs. “Nobody? Not ever?”

“Not ever.”

An image comes to Gabriel’s mind, punches him in the guts. The memory of those early days in army barracks full of hopeful young people, the memory of all those conversations and boasts about ambition and future conquests and lovers and family. And how quiet Jack was. How silent he would remain. For all of his life this had been eating at him, a hungry feast of leeches on the inside, and he never said a word. A part of Gabriel is hurt that Jack never trusted him enough with this before, but at least now there’s understanding between them; he doesn’t need to wonder and worry from afar, kept at arm’s length, only able to guess at what was going on in his mind.

“I’m not upset, Jack,” he lies, voice tight. “But you know you could have told me, yeah? I wouldn’t have been… angry, or upset…”

“I just couldn’t, angel.” Quiet, broken down. It’s apologetic.

Gabriel can’t help himself. He gets up onto numb legs and glides over to Jack.

“Can I touch you?”

Jack looks up at him. The worst part of his expression is the confusion, the fear. And then he nods. He stands.

Gabriel has only held Jack this way once before, after the final battle, when the ash hadn’t properly settled and the blood was still hot on the pavement and they were still holding their guns in trained steady hands, and they faced each other. And Jack just folded. He didn’t cry, didn’t say anything. All he did was pull Gabriel close and press his face into his shoulder, exhausted. A stolen decade flooding out of his bones.

Gabriel holds him close now, feels those big hands clutch at his back, feels his mouth on his shoulder, their heartbeats pressed together. He runs a hand through those greyed locks, the other rubbing his back as if comforting a child, soothing him, trying to ignore how he shakes, the harsh breathing and how tightly he is being clutched onto, the desperation in his touch. He just brings Jack closer, and tears are slipping down his cheeks, his heart so full from the pain and empathy he is experiencing.

They stand that way for a long time, silhouetted statues locked in embrace. Gabriel is crying, openly, and Jack just breathes. His shakes are violent, trying not to fold in on himself. Their hug could last an eternity, and Gabriel couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. They are more than their careers here, no longer two Commanders. They’re two men in love.

Jack is the first to pull away, and his eyes are red, yet dry, his expression softened. Gabriel has never seen him appear this gentle in front of anyone else, and he knows now how difficult it is for him to allow that emotional vulnerability. A hand comes up to touch that stubbled cheek, and he ignores the smoker’s breath when Jack starts to speak.

“I should forgive him, right?” Gabriel is taken aback.

“What? Why would you have to do that?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? It’s…” _Christian_.

“Fuck that,” Gabriel replies. His voice is dead serious. “Seriously, Jack. Fuck that.” Now Jack is the surprised one.

“But--”

“He did nothing to deserve your forgiveness, not a damn thing. He never attempted to make amends and even if he had, you wouldn’t have to forgive him. That idea that you have to stick with the family you were given is absolute horse-shit. You have a family, Jack, and it’s not the one we buried this morning. What do you want to do?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

“Burn that damn house to the ground.” Jack’s voice is low, and neutral, but he smiles a little saying those words. Gabriel sniffs and smiles back, his hands going to Jack’s chest, reassuring him.

“Would that we could, but unless you wanna start a new career in arson, I got the next best thing.”

\--

His father’s clothes, it turns out, are incredibly flammable.

The makeshift bonfire is in the entrance of the barn, on the dirt floor, covered in gasoline and at the mercy of the closed lighter in Jack’s hand. There are several personal items stacked on it the wood at the base. Books his father enjoyed, of history and detectives. The ugly, old fashioned china plates lining the dining room cabinet, now smashed to smithereens. The framed photo of a false Jesus. The photo album, minus one picture of Hannah, now folded and nestled safely in Jack’s pocket. Gabriel tries to convince him to throw his cigarettes in the pile too, and it earns a roll of the eyes.

The lighter clicks open.

The stench of gasoline is replaced by that of flame when the entire pile goes up, reflecting an orange into their faces, an orange mirrored in the sky above. Night is slowly ebbed away. It is 5 am and they stand outside the barn, watching the remaining evidence of John Morrison’s life burn up. This represents so much more than spiting a dead father. This is cleansing for Jack, the funeral he should have had. Gabriel turns his head to examine him quietly, watches the reflection of the fire in his eyes, and for a moment, he sees the glimmer of what could almost be peace.

He cannot help himself reaching out to interlock their fingers. Jack doesn’t tear his eyes from the flames, and he doesn’t register the touch for a moment. And then he accepts it. Their hands hold one another tightly, hot from the fire and summer air, uncomfortably so, but neither of them are willing to let go.

The fire burns for almost twenty minutes, and they witness it in mutual silence.

“I think,” Jack says, “A part of me always wanted to see that fucker burn. This is the closest I’ll get.” The malice Gabriel hears is verging on satisfaction.

“Hey,” Gabriel replies. He squeezes that hand, tilting his head, and finally their heads turn to meet one another. They’re exhausted, both of them, but it’s a good exhaustion, the same fatigue they felt after the war ended. Another kind of battle has been fought here today. “For the record, I’m really, really proud of you, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t reply, but Gabriel sees those eyes soften, and then he moves forward with intention. Their lips brush, hands move to cheeks, and they kiss as if it’s the first time.

The fire becomes ash after an hour, and they find themselves strolling back towards the house through the fields of corn, closure of a sort in their hearts, marred only by the weariness in their expressions and heartbeats. Birdsong fills the air when they reach the porch, marking the arrival of daylight. They are soaked in the weary grey sky of morning, and for a moment, all is calm. They pause before entering the house at the gesture of Gabriel putting his hand to the doorframe.

“I love you,” he says, and he means it. “But we need to work harder on us. You need to promise we won’t get to this point again.” Jack nods. They both know a marriage cannot last the direction they are taking it, but they can both pretend. Gabriel’s smile relaxes. “And I should show it more. How much I love you.”

“Then show me.”

They kiss. It’s slow, and gentle, and there’s more fire in it than the one they started at the barn. Gabriel is weak in his arms, and there is emotion in his breath. He wishes his touch could mend Jack’s broken heart, and he wishes he could will his own away. They waltz through the house and up the stairs, and all that matters is one another, their bodies and their breaths and their lips, and they bare themselves to one another.

The world rarely allows for them to express their love to one another so frankly. Gabriel doesn’t believe in miracles, but he knows he’s thankful that they can be here right now, in the liminal space of Jack’s old bedroom. Here they can breathe, they can fall into each other’s arms, as one, for once. He’s overwhelmed by emotion and the act of worship they perform, they both are, and their hot hands intertwine, clasped together in case they should lose one another. They kiss with fever, bruisingly, hands on hips, whispering each other’s names in prayer.

“I’ll always love you,” Jack sighs, after the fact. “Always, angel…” He touches Gabriel’s chest, presses his face into his neck. Gabriel could almost swear he feels tears run down his throat.

And they sleep. It comes quickly with their exhaustion, rushes into their weary bones. There are things to do, things to come, but for now, they need their rest. For now, they can pretend the future is bright.

Gabriel thinks that they deserve that.

\--

In the South of France, the Reaper finds a church.

It is old, but lovingly upkept, painted alabaster white on the outside. Stained glass, so bright in daylight, is dulled and useless in the night-time. Is small, but comfortable. The cool walls contrast with the unbreathable air of the summer heat.

(not that breathing matters to you.  
what’s the point of lungs when your body is smoke and ash.  
what’s the point of breathing when you’re always suffocating.)

He glides his scarred fingers along the walls, feeling the rough texture and bumps. His mission is a solo one, thankfully, and he is comfortable in his solitude to bear that mottled skin.

(not when there are others, no.  
their eyes penetrate your skin, and you burn.)

He needs rest for the night, though rest doesn’t always mean sleep. Sleep is harder since becoming a wraith.

He removes his mask. It’s too hot for it, and he is alone, and interruption is unlikely, unless the parish returns before dawn. What would they think, he wonders, to find a demon in their place of worship?

He doesn’t touch his face.

(he doesn’t want to know.)

In the darkness, he sits on the chapel's front-step, and pulls his lighter from his pocket. The sounds of cicadas mock him from the surrounding cornfield, and his mind begins to warp the noise into a name. Incessant on his ears. It’s painful. He can’t focus on what this is reminding him of, or he will lose himself to it. He wills away thoughts of hiding places and blue eyes.

(those things will be the death of you.)

The Reaper lights his cigarette.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone in my awful groupchat for supporting me during writing this, especially Luke and Richard who kept me company for 5+ hours on voice chat, distracting me entirely. I love you guys. 
> 
> Follow at dailyreaper76.tumblr.com or at my main, iphonerosegold.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> EDIT  
> -  
> Now there's a playlist for this fic if anyone's interested!  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/star-woman/playlist/7d5hY7rqueVEV5Phsvp5gy


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